


The Forest

by shinyforce



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-04 23:09:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6679174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinyforce/pseuds/shinyforce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lor'themar makes a poet out of Rommath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Forest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dustygnome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustygnome/gifts).



Lor’themar smells like the forest. It’s facile, asinine, a simile any aspiring poet would scorn, but Rommath is no poet. His words are wielded like weapons, to cut, to nick, to bludgeon; a politician’s words from an analyst’s mind. Rommath creates art with magic, not with letters, and even then he asserts that the ‘art’ in magic pales in comparison to scientific study and the bounds of one’s intellect.

But Lor’themar  _ does _ smell like the forest.

If Rommath were a different man, a more romantic man, he might pick apart each scent and surprise him with his sensitivity and thoughtfulness. Rommath’s nose is one of his greatest assets in the laboratory, where he can tell with one disdainful sniff whether a potion is subpar or sublime, but people are different. Lor’themar is different. He defies science, defies Rommath’s careful observations and cunning experiments.

He defies  _ Rommath _ . And that invigorates him. Lor’themar is the only one who can, the only one  _ allowed _ . Rommath’s will is fire and steel, but he will quench it if the Regent Lord pushes. Lor’themar’s will is Quel’thalas’s will, and Rommath swore long ago to serve Quel’thalas above all else, the Sunstriders his crucible, the smouldering ashes of Kael’s funeral pyre his warpaint.

“You smell like the forest,” Rommath says, his face pressed into Lor’themar’s silver-blond hair. It is horribly tangled, but they are  _ his _ tangles. “Have you been rolling around in the dirt?” 

“I have been rolling around with  _ you _ ,” Lor’themar says, bland and deliberate, his back warm and strong against Rommath’s chest, “so you tell me.”

Rommath stiffens infinitesimally, forces himself to relax. A jest, of course. Lor’themar cannot know how Rommath sees a tattered figure stained with filth in his dreams and out of the corner of his eye in the looking glass, drunk. He cannot.

“Clearly I am filthy too, consorting with rangers. You have quite ruined me. My bath will need a bath after I am done.” 

Rommath is pleased, though. Long ago, Lor’themar had not known how to deal with him.  _ Cold, strange, unsettling. The Prince’s pet.  _ Rommath had heard the whispers, had been aware of Lor’themar and Halduron’s ashen faces as they discussed his loyalty long into the night. They had decided against assassination, but he had felt almost proud of them for considering it.  _ They are not as artless as I’d feared.  _

These days, Lor’themar’s understated humour matches Rommath blow for blow, tempers his biting remarks into a camaraderie neither of them ever expected or sought after.  _ When did we begin to respect one another? _ True friendship had not died with Kael after all.

“Then allow me to sully you one last time, to really make it worth it.”

“If you must.” Rommath rolls onto his back, tosses back his head, bares his throat, challenging and inviting like a cat.  _ I will allow you to pleasure me,  _ the gesture says, though his hands are already wandering, his legs sliding against the sheets, against Lor’themar.

“So onerous, I know.”

Lor’themar’s hands are warm and strong, like Lor’themar himself. Rommath feels safe, treasured, and curses himself for being so weak even as he closes his eyes and gives in to Lor’themar’s affection. He is unworthy of being touched so, but this is one time where he stills his tongue regarding Lor’themar’s poor judgment. If he draws attention to it, perhaps Lor’themar will come to his senses, and after experiencing the regard of such a noble man he cannot bear to be alone again, stuck with his thoughts, stuck with his deeds.

_ You know them all, know  _ me _ , and still you touch me as though I am precious. _

Is it selfish, to want something for himself after serving others for so long? Rommath has been accused of many things, but selfishness has never been one of them. Everything he has done has been for the good of Quel’thalas, in intention if not in deed. But Rommath himself is part of Quel’thalas, isn’t he? Does he deserve to be cradled in a ranger’s arms – in a regent-lord’s arms – and be kissed until he laughs? Silvermoon’s citizens should be happy, surely? 

“You are brooding again,” Lor’themar says, voice gently disapproving.

“I am thinking on your magnificence,” Rommath returns, deflecting intimacy with irony. It is as natural as breathing, now, this armour he has donned and worn until it has become a part of him, fused to his skin like an exoskeleton and just as ugly.

“And finding it lacking, I am sure. How unseemly for the regent-lord to be covered in scars and missing an eye.” Lor’themar parries with irony of his own, knowing full well that it is unacceptable for anyone but Rommath to offer him insult.

“You are never lacking.” Rommath’s brow furrows, the ardency in his voice husky, unseemly. “I’ve told you this before.”

Lor’themar looks him in the eye, caresses his flank with one of his precious, calloused ranger hands. “I must be an agonisingly slow learner to one such as you.”

“‘Agonising’ does not begin to describe it. You are –”  _ Glorious, golden, peerless.  _ “Obdurate, as always.” 

Lor’themar’s hand is warm, so warm. Rommath knows that his eyes are twinkling, betraying him. Lor’themar has already seen deeper inside Rommath than any man should, the aftermath of Kael’s betrayal a weakness even Rommath’s will could not hide. He has seen his nails digging into his palm; seen his posture, rigid and broken; seen and studiously not acknowledged the single, damnable tear that flouted his resolve at Kael’s funeral. Seen, and not exploited. A mercy he did not – does not – deserve.

Lor’themar has seen Rommath at his very lowest, and still he lies with him night after night. Still he bares himself, bares his secrets to the most contemptible man in Quel’thalas. Rommath cannot credit it, but the evidence bears out: Lor’themar cares for him. Once, he would have sneered. Once, he would have thought him weak. The Regent Lord, in love with his Grand Magister? 

But Lor’themar is far from weak, and Rommath is astute enough to know it. Lor’themar is strong like the boughs of a grand oak, steadfast, immovable, there at the start and the end of all things. And Lor’themar watches, listens, shrewd and patient like a lynx in the woods and twice as regal. Rommath is his prey tonight, and when Lor’themar leaps Rommath does not flinch. Rommath does not cringe.

Rommath is devoured, eyes shining green in the candlelight. He is consumed, raked with claws that caress as they burn. He cries out. He is afraid but exhilarated. His blood heats in his veins. He gives himself gladly to Lor’themar.

Lor’themar, who gazes upon him with careful reverence even as primal need burns in his eyes. Lor’themar, whose fingers are as the wind, harsh and grasping, soft and whispering. Lor’themar, whose body is like the earth, grounding and sheltering, quaking and shuddering.

Lor’themar, who smells like the forest. Lor’themar, who  _ is _ the forest.

Rommath is no poet. Rommath is no romantic. Later, he will be embarrassed.

But in this moment, this single, perfect moment, he lets himself go, to dance as a leaf on the wind, and gives himself to the forest.

**Author's Note:**

> A small attempt to regain my writing mojo! For dustygnome, whose insight into and love for these characters is an inspiration.


End file.
